


Sherlock in Verse

by ardenteurophile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2010-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardenteurophile/pseuds/ardenteurophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not as bad as it sounds, I promise...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All plot, characters and much of the dialogue belong to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, but much love & gratitute to my main man Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

He’s barely been back home a month now  
And so often he dreams he’s still there  
That godawful sound, bodies strewn on the ground  
And the bullets that rip through the air

As asked to, he starts up a weblog  
(On his therapist’s terrible whim)  
He tries to protest though he’s sure she knows best -  
Nothing ever happens to him

His days now are dulled-out in greyscale  
And the nights are sweat-drenched & so dark  
He fills up his days with minutae  
And occasional walks in the park

That’s where he bumps into Mike Stamford  
And he stops, although he’d rather not  
“I heard you were off getting shot at”, he says  
“I was,” answers John, “I got shot”.

Mike’s face from a time long forgotten  
It seems like a different life  
The one that he thought he’d be leading  
With a job, perhaps kids and a wife

Not dragging this leg and these nightmares  
Avoiding old friends and their pity  
He tells Mike that he can’t afford it  
That he’s thinking of leaving the city

“Who’d want to have me as a flatmate?!”  
After all, his life’s less charmed than cursed  
“You’re the second to say just that to me today”,  
Chuckles Mike; answers John, “Who’s the first?”

He drags him straight over to meet him  
It’s a long time since John’s been to Bart’s  
He finds it quite queer that where his whole career  
Once began, again everything starts.

The lab’s changed a bit since he left it  
Though it’s still drab & grey & quite gloomy  
With that dismal decor hospitals are known for  
And amongst it, his potential new roomie

He’s all awkward angles and gangles  
And he dresses like... well, like a goth  
Yet he’s startling grace and an intriguing face  
So he’s just about pulling it off

He doesn’t give much of a greeting  
His manner and bearing are stark  
When John lends him his phone (must have left his at home)  
He asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I’m sorry?” asks John, feeling baffled  
Looking more than a little askance  
But the man simply ignores his question  
Keeps on talking as though in a trance

“I feel that first off I should warn you  
I’m terribly set in my ways  
I play violin at all kind of o’clock  
And sometimes I don’t talk for days”

John stares at him, all of a puzzle  
And gives him an uncertain blink  
“These are things we should know if we really are go  
ing to live together, don’t you think?”

John’s mouth is agape with amazement  
How on earth did the man know all that?  
“But we’ve only just met, and I don’t know you yet  
And you want us to look at a flat?!”

“I know that you’re an army doctor  
Invalided home from Afghanistan  
You’ve a limp – mostly psychosomatic  
You’re blonde, rather stocky, a man.

You’ve a brother that you don’t approve of -  
I presume it’s because of the drinking –  
He’s a wife that he’s lately walked out on  
And you don’t like that either, I’m thinking

That’s why you won’t ask his assistance –  
Oh, so messy, affairs of the heart –  
So you’ve come to me seeking a flatshare;  
That’s enough now, I think, for a start.”

John raises his brows, quite astonished  
(And he’d not even said where they’d meet!)  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes”, he announces,  
“221B, Baker Street.”

John frowns at his gall and presumption  
And has half-mind to give him what for  
But he can't quite begin, as with wink & a grin  
Sherlock Holmes strides right out of the door.


	2. Chapter 2

He sits up that night armed with Google  
And his head’s telling him: run a mile  
Sherlock Holmes has a very odd website  
John updates his blog with a smile

The next day they meet on the doorstep  
Of the house that might become their home  
And John shakes the hand of the madman  
And steps in and into the unknown

The landlady’s batty but harmless  
(Mrs Hudson) and all of a-flutter  
The flat itself’s really quite pleasant  
At least, underneath all of the clutter

There’s mess on every single surface  
And – Christ, is that really a skull?!  
John’s not quite sure yet who this man is  
But he’s sure things aren’t going to be dull

He tells him he looked at his website  
Sherlock smirks down at him, quite amused  
“Well, what did you think?” he inquires  
John just shrugs and Sherlock looks confused

He starts rattling off facts about him  
Almost as though he’s offering up proof  
When John asks him “How?” he just raises a brow  
And then turns away, looking aloof

“Ooh, so what about all of these suicides?”  
Mrs Hudson quavers from the door  
“It’s just your cup of tea – there’s already been three!”  
Sherlock glances outside: “Make that four.”

There’s footfalls outside on the stairway  
A man rushes in, looking worried  
“Will you come?” he requests; Sherlock’s nodding  
Though he seems absolutely unhurried

His nonchalance lasts til the moment  
That the man’s disappeared out the door  
Wher’pon Sherlock lets out a most jubilant shout  
And then jumps up and down on the floor

“Four serial deaths, it’s like Christmas!  
And on top of it all, now a note!  
Mrs Hudson, I’m heading on over -  
Now, has anybody seen my coat?”

He’s gone in a whirling of coat-tails -  
You can’t deny that he’s got flair -  
John’s left with his leg and his landlady  
In a forlorn and decrepit armchair

He finds himself suddenly jealous  
Though he’s normally not one to gripe  
Mrs Hudson bears brunt of his disgruntlement  
When she says he’s the “sitting down type”

It’s out before he can quite check it  
A yell of frustration and shame  
“Damn my leg!” he retorts, choked with self-loathing thoughts  
And sick-tired of being bloody lame

On top of it all, there’s the knowledge  
That he’s lucky to just not be dead  
Not have been killed- oh, it’s survivor’s guilt  
But that won’t stop the thoughts in his head

Sherlock appears back in the doorway  
Moving quieter than anyone should  
“You’re a doctor”, he says, more a statement  
than question. And then, “Are you any good?”

“Very,” John says with conviction  
(If there’s one thing he’s sure of it’s this.  
He’s earnt that distinction with screaming  
and with blood sweat and vomit and piss.)

“So you’ve seen lots of injuries then?  
Violent deaths, I mean, that sort of thing?”  
Sherlock’s voice is tainted with darkness  
His expression, at best, worrying

“Some trouble too, then, I’d imagine?”  
John only wishes it’d been less  
Oh, that damnable war! - “Want to see some more?”  
And John opens his mouth: “Oh God, yes.”


End file.
